


a flicker of hope

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Cries, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Worried Tony Stark, a tad bit of heartbreak for your day, sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29208618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: Embers flow and caper over his shoulders while bits of ceiling tumble around him in hot, melted segments. Now isn’t the time for patience and planning, he thinks. He’s busy searching for limbs in piles of debris, busy listening for voices or bellows that call out in pleading desperation. He doesn’t stop to wonder why it’s so hard to see through the thickening smoke because all he cares about is the one person making this ordeal worth it.The name leaves his lips before he can stop it.“Peter!” he calls out, throat constricting as all the moisture leaves his tongue. Tony’s chest heaves in sporadic waves; each appendage has fallen numb without awareness. Not now, he thinks, pushing his way through burning wood and plaster, this can’t happen now.Tony doesn’t have anything to lean on. He doesn’t have the chance to catch his breath. While his suit has the capability of filtering out foreign chemicals, or anything harmful for that matter, it doesn’t block the unbearable heat crawling through the crevices. He feels like he’s choking on his own carbon dioxide, and he’s suffocating at the expense of trying to save Peter.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Tony Stark, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 70





	a flicker of hope

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone ! Read this please !
> 
> I just wanted to put a quick note here to give a lil warning. There is no graphic violence, but there is: 
> 
> * A brief use of graphic description !! There's also more swearing than usual for my stories. *
> 
> I chose not to use any warnings because I don't believe that the given Archive warnings apply, but I do want readers to read at their own will because there might be moments of discomfort. 
> 
> Also, keep in mind, this story is on the heavier side. It's not as lighthearted as my typical writings.
> 
> Thanks! Love you all. x B

♢

Tony isn’t in his workshop when the screens go dark. It’s as if the entire world has gone quiet, silence enveloping the gray, white walls before the humming of his computers is drowned out by a gentle alarm—a consistent chirping that reflects the sounds of teaspoons clinking against porcelain, and a dull red light accompanies it. The sight is uncommon but not rare. For those few minutes in his absence, the workshop sits in an unbothered, eerie atmosphere that can only mean one thing: Peter Parker’s suit is no longer online. 

Tony has become quite accustomed to this—a fucked-up game of cat and mouse that has shed a few years off of his life span. And each time is as unexpected as the last. When the connection is lost and all information dissolves into oblivion, the sixteen-year-old is bound to be knocking on death’s door or participating in an incredibly foolish act. The suit shuts off, and the panic sets in. 

FRIDAY alerts him as he’s getting ready for bed. He has a toothbrush in his mouth, toothpaste smeared on his chin while Pepper takes off her makeup and hums a song she heard earlier on the radio. It’s a simple moment, domestic even, but then his AI’s voice steals the feeling out from underneath him. His spit hits the sink with a startling _splat_ , and he’s quick to wipe his mouth and tray his toothbrush before kissing his fiancée on the cheek. It’s minty and full of love, yet there’s a tremble to his touch she can easily place, one so vaguely familiar, and she feels for him. He cares about this kid. He cares so much it may kill him. 

But Tony dying is the least of their problems tonight. The workshop is cold, buzzing with the energy of failed projects and offhanded conversations with himself, and the only noise in the room is the soft chirping that makes his blood freeze. A console at his desk emits a blinking light that paints the room in red hues. His arms have fallen numb, and as he walks, he refuses to catch his reflection in nearby machinery. There’s only so much exhaustion he’s able to endure in his features before his dwindling self-image rots his very core. 

With a sigh, Tony leans over his desk and types in code after code. Anything that might show him the schematics to Peter’s suit. Anything that might reverse the consequences of the loophole that the kid has found. All Tony can do is pull up the last recorded information, and then he understands. 

He understands where everything went wrong. First, it’s Peter’s core body temperature, climbing and climbing until the suit’s initial shutdown. And then it’s the footage from the baby monitor, and Tony has to sit down with a hand clutched to his heart. 

Wherever the kid is—where he might’ve been—is shrouded in darkness, and sudden bright flames lick the path around him. Embers fall from the ceiling along with charred debris. Peter, meanwhile, is breathing heavier with each passing moment. Tony’s knuckles turn white at the sound. He can’t help his mind from judging Peter’s actions, pleading in silence as he mentally scolds him for not keeping low to avoid the smoke. The sight of the recorded footage distracts Tony from the ultimate reason behind the suit’s shutdown. 

Because when static fills the room and the footage goes blank, he thinks he may have blinked. He thinks his hearing may have given up on him. All it takes is a loud crack followed by a torrent of cinders, and everything is lost. 

The workshop fills with silence again. 

“FRIDAY?” Tony croaks out, grasping the center of his t-shirt while his other hand splits the seams on his chair. “What the fuck was that?” 

For once, his AI doesn’t know how to answer. “I’m not sure, boss,” she replies, and her voice sounds hesitant, unsure. He doesn’t remember programming her to hold such sympathy in her tone; it turns his stomach inside out. 

“I need, er—gimme—ah, _shit_.” Tony holds his face in his palm, perspiration dripping down his temples as he rubs them dry. His mind stutters while his thoughts swarm. The room is only seconds away from spinning before he stands and slams his fist down on the desk. “Last known location. Vitals. Anything you can give me. I want it. I-I need it.”

“Right away.”

As he collapses back into his seat, he allows his hand to tremble when he presses it to his chin. Tony knows that he’s notorious for worrying, but it can’t be helped. Not with Peter. Not with a kid whose favorite game to play is _how to give a billionaire a heart attack for each day of the week_. All the while, when Peter isn’t nearly killing himself, he’s crying wolf. He’s putting Tony’s nerves on edge for no reason at all. Tonight, Tony knows, deep down, there’s a reason that he’s not willing to admit. Something has gone wrong. 

He doesn’t hear Pepper descend the steps, nor does he glance over when she calls his name. He can visualize her in his mind, her bathrobe loose around her shoulders over some old t-shirt of his while she stands with her arms crossed. It’s not that she’s mad—no, it’s not that at all. He once believed it was because she tended to get cold often. But now he knows better. His vulnerability radiates like a furnace, and she soaks it in. When he’s vulnerable, she is, too. Yet she somehow ends up stronger.

“Tony,” she repeats, voice falling quiet as she steps up to him. Her hand settles on his shoulder, and he finally looks up, eyes wide and dry. 

“I need to go,” he says. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he drops his hand from his chin to regain a hint of composure. “I need to find out what—what went wrong.” 

“Is that the best idea?” she asks hesitantly. Her fingers toy with the collar of his shirt. “Right now?”

A heavy ache seeds itself in Tony’s chest. “Yes,” he answers. “It might be the only thing I can do.”

She understands. She always understands. 

Pepper nods and steps away, giving him a sad, sweet smile that she knows will ease the pain—if only for a fraction of a second. “If it’s what you need to do,” she says, “then you have to go.”

He nods as well. If she believes it, then he does, too. “Fri, get me a suit,” he speaks loudly to the room. “Get me to Peter.”

* * *

The snow falls heavy as he enters Queens, flurries twirling with the trepidation he holds deep down and refuses to hide. He sees the smoldering landscape before his AI alerts him that he’s near—it sticks out among the sea of sleepy suburb homes and dying holiday lights that have yet to be taken down. The smoke still billows high. Flames still flicker and dance against the blue night. Flashes of red and white are hidden behind the clouds of ash. Tony thinks this may all be a cruel nightmare. As he descends, he doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

A metallic taste sits on his tongue once he touches down, and the firefighters that rush around are too preoccupied to notice the superhero’s helmet peel back. There’s an orange haze that clouds his vision, one that reflects in the perspiration building on his cheeks as he takes in the scene before him. A building—what is left of it—burns bright. The flames, however, are no longer as large as they had been in Peter’s suit recording. Nevertheless, the fire rages on, and the foundation is on its last legs. 

Tony’s chest swells with a heavy sensation. Every inhale feels like nails being hammered into the soft flesh of his lungs until they’re left empty and neglected. It should be impossible to have hope, he thinks, but there’s not a damn chance he’ll give it up. 

“Hey—you,” Tony says abruptly, catching a firefighter by the shoulder. He speaks with a voice unlike his own. Harsh and broken. He doesn’t pay attention to it. “How long have you been here? What can you tell me about this fire?”

The firefighter stammers over incoherent words. As they remove their mask, their wide eyes are the first thing Tony sees. “I-I’m not at liberty to say. We’ve been here for a half-hour as it is.” 

“You’re not at liberty to say?” Tony repeats. He tastes the edge of frustration and lets it get the best of him. “What the hell does that mean? Do you know who I am?” 

“I—yes, but I—”

“You know what? Doesn’t matter.” He speaks as though the air doesn’t burn his lungs with each inhale. “I need to—I need you to tell me i-if you’ve seen Spider-Man. Red and blue suit. Hard to miss. Lanky, kind of short. Have you seen him?” 

The firefighter blinks a few times. “Spider-Man? No, no. We haven’t—”

“He’s here,” Tony hears himself say. He’s not in control of his thoughts, and it doesn’t seem to matter as the words pass his lips. He feels floaty, almost numb. Like he no longer exists with time and space. “You have to help me find him. Okay? Whoever your superior is—I need you and everyone t-to help me find him.”

“With all due respect, Mister Stark,” the person says, folding their fire hood under their lip, “but we’re only just now containing the fire, and it’s far too dangerous to go in while the foundation is—”

“Fine.” Tony’s nostrils flare as he nods. He can’t hear more excuses. “Fine. I get it.”

And he does, but he doesn’t have the time or temperament to satisfy the conversation any further. The helmet of his suit fits back into place. While firefighters scurry about, yanking large hoses of water over their shoulders, Tony walks with determination. They don’t notice him; they’re not worried about him. He’s not worried about himself either. As he steps into the building’s collapsed entrance, he doesn’t worry about the flames or the crumbling architecture. He has one objective: find Peter. 

Tony’s senses are controlled by the environment. The scent of thick smoke and charring wood invade while the sounds of crackling fire overwhelm. He can no longer hear the yells of firefighters as they struggle to put out the flames. He can no longer breathe in the fresh, crisp air of winter as he fights his way through fallen boards and smoldering furniture. If he were to guess, he would say this is an average office building not unlike Dunder Mifflin, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to care.

“Scan for lifeforms,” he says aloud, eyeing the flames around him while the heat sinks beneath his metal encasing. “Use infrared or night vision. I don’t care.” 

“Thermal scanners might not be able to pick up on a lifeform if—”

“I don’t _care_ , FRIDAY. Just do it.” 

When he speaks, he speaks offhandedly. It’s a coping mechanism he doesn’t think much about—using dry language to prevent himself from sounding desperate. He comes off arrogant and conceited, but he hears his own voice as screams rattling in his head until they splinter and crack. He speaks offhandedly because he doesn’t trust himself to do otherwise. 

FRIDAY’s scanners fail. The rooms are too hot to pick up differing temperatures within a certain radius. Tony doesn’t have the time to act boldly or thrash about in search of an ounce of hope. Instead, he acts on his own conscience, ignoring the shrill warning in his suit about the heat as he walks through flames. He ignores the danger of it all. 

Embers flow and caper over his shoulders while bits of ceiling tumble around him in hot, melted segments. Now isn’t the time for patience and planning, he thinks. He’s busy searching for limbs in piles of debris, busy listening for voices or bellows that call out in pleading desperation. He doesn’t stop to wonder why it’s so hard to see through the thickening smoke because all he cares about is the one person making this ordeal worth it. 

The name leaves his lips before he can stop it. 

“Peter!” he calls out, throat constricting as all the moisture leaves his tongue. Tony’s chest heaves in sporadic waves; each appendage has fallen numb without awareness. _Not now,_ he thinks, pushing his way through burning wood and plaster, _this can’t happen now._

Tony doesn’t have anything to lean on. He doesn’t have the chance to catch his breath. While his suit has the capability of filtering out foreign chemicals, or anything harmful for that matter, it doesn’t block the unbearable heat crawling through the crevices. He feels like he’s choking on his own carbon dioxide, and he’s suffocating at the expense of trying to save Peter. 

But Tony is not a quitter. He furrows his brows and grits his teeth while his palm surges forward. A blast from his repulsor takes out a wall of fallen rubble standing in his way. The flames soar at the sudden impact, and he strides right through. FRIDAY talks above the noise, yet all he can hear is his voice shouting Peter’s name until his ribs ache. 

All he can hear is the crackling of fire and wood before the building crumbles around him.

* * *

_“How about a nice cup of joe to call you down, yeah? You’ve paced a trench in my floor.”_

_Peter came to a halt as he stared at Tony with wide eyes. It was a comforting look—one akin to excitement rather than the typical anxiety-fueled agony that had been consuming him for the past hour. “Do you have hot chocolate?” he asked._

_Despite the question, a smile grew on Tony’s face. “Pete,” he said, raising a tenacious brow, “I am not going to be responsible for giving you that powder substance you call hot chocolate.”_

_This earned a huff from the teenager. “Says the guy who drinks instant coffee,” he grumbled before resuming his pacing._

_It had been like this for a half-hour: Tony repairing and adding minor modifications to the Spider-Man suit while Peter wandered circles around the room in anticipation. There was a drug bust later in the evening, a big one, and Peter had every intention of being there. But Tony, in the kid’s eyes, was taking his sweet time. This just wouldn’t do._

_“It fuels the soul,” Tony said under his breath. “Do you mind taking a seat for—I don’t know—maybe ten minutes so you can stop freaking out? Because you’re freaking me out. And if I’m freaking out, then I can’t get this done, and so you’ll just keep on freaking out. Come to think of it, why am I doing all the work?”_

_Peter hugged himself as he sent Tony a glare. “Cos’ you love me and appreciate me and would do anything to help me,” he said in one swift beat._

_At that moment, it dawned on Tony that Peter’s worry ran deeper. Tony set his tools down before him with a heavy sigh, and it took Peter a few seconds to notice that silence had filled the room once again. He came to an abrupt stop._

_“What?” he asked quickly. “What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?”_

_“You tell me,” Tony said. “All this time I thought you were worried about losing punctuality points.”_

_“I-I like being punctual.”_

_He nodded. “I know. But that’s not what has your panties in a twist, is it?”_

_“I wear boxers.”_

_“Mister Parker, what are you hiding from me?”_

_Peter blanched at the question and swallowed the lump rising in his throat. As he glanced down at his feet, a mess of incoherent words tumbled from his lips._

_Tony’s face contorted. “You what?” he asked, leaning closer. “You have to speak up because my old man ears can’t—”_

_“I have a date,” Peter announced loudly before cowering back in on himself. “I-I have a date. Later. After the bust. And—and I’m so freakin’ nervous, Mister Stark.”_

_“Holy shit, kid,” Tony said. The flushed cheeks made sense now. Nevertheless, the confession didn’t stop Peter from continuing his pacing around the workshop. “Okay, calm down. Take a seat, and I mean it.”_

_Peter did as he was told this time and fell onto a stool before his sickly gaze found Tony. If Tony hadn’t known any better, he would have given the kid a bucket. With his stool in hand, he rounded the edge of his desk so he could sit across from the slightly-green-shaded teenager whose only worries were saving the neighborhood and having his first kiss._

_“Were you ever gonna tell me about this date?” Tony asked with a sly grin. “Or were you just gonna push it under the rug like the time you were kidnapped and went missing for two days?”_

_“It’s called repressing trauma, Mister Stark. You might be familiar with it.”_

_Tony blinked, and his mouth hung open with a dry scoff. “Okay, I see how it is,” he murmured, nodding. “Pulling a reverse-UNO on me. But we’re not talking about me right now, all right? We’re talking about you.”_

_Peter frowned. “I don’t like talking about myself.”_

_“I know. You are ridiculously humble; it hurts me.”_

_“There’s nothing to talk about anyway,” he said with a shrug. “It’s just a date.”_

_Tony nodded once more and leaned back on his stool. He tried his best to not seem like an analyst, but the effort was failing. “One you’re clearly making yourself sick over,” he replied._

_“Well, yeah.” Peter’s face twisted as he shifted on his stool. “She’s—she’s just pretty, I guess. I’m just nervous. It’s fine. Can you finish the suit now?”_

_“Jesus,” Tony grumbled, but he stood nevertheless, taking his stool with him. “Pushy, pushy. I will only on one condition.”_

_“Stop talking, please.”_

_“Be safe and don’t have too much—”_

_“Stop! God, stop.”_

_“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing. He held his hands up in defense before picking up a pentalobe screwdriver. “Fine. But for fuck’s sake—stay seated. I can’t watch your pacing anymore, okay?. It’s making me dizzy.”_

_Peter stayed quiet for a few minutes following the conversation, and he remained motionless as well. Tony was almost convinced that the kid had fallen asleep, but the familiar sounds of his snores weren't there to keep them company. It was only when Peter decided to speak up that Tony acknowledged his presence again._

_“Do you—”_

_“What?”_

_Peter cleared his throat and kept his eyes locked on the ground. “Do you have any advice? Maybe? I haven’t—I’ve never… yeah.”_

_Tony could force himself to believe that the warmth in his chest was due to Peter’s nerves, but he knew that wasn’t the case. “Advice,” he echoed, smiling. “You’re asking me, a notorious playboy, for advice?”_

_Peter nodded. “Yes.”_

_Tony hummed at the quick answer. “Well, sure, I’ve got advice,” he said as he leaned over the desk. Advice. What the hell kind of advice was he supposed to give a sixteen-year-old kid? Look both ways when crossing the street? Hold your buddy’s hand so the other doesn’t get lost? Tony huffed. “But I’m starting to think you don’t need any of my crummy advice.”_

_“Please?”_

_The subtle desperation in Peter’s tone replaced the warmth in Tony’s chest with a splintering ache. This was a big deal to Peter. And talking to Tony about it meant more than the older man realized._

_“You’ve got instincts—”_

_“Great observation.”_

_“Hey, I’m not done,” Tony said. A chuckle left his lips before he continued. “You’ve got instincts that can put the entire world to shame, you know that? You can see a punch coming before it’s even thrown. And the fact that you’re coming to me for advice—well, Pete, that’s a pretty damn big compliment to me. So, here’s what I’m gonna tell you—”_

_“Don’t say ‘don’t be like me’.”_

_“Okay, I mean—I was, but it doesn’t matter now,” Tony muttered with a sigh. “What I want to say, really, is that you should be better. It’s actual advice. Good advice. You should be writing this down. Don’t be like me but be better. And I know you can do it because I know that you are better than me.”_

_Peter furrowed his brows at this information as a frown tugged on his lips. “Why are you putting yourself down just to make me feel better?” he asked._

_Tony hadn’t expected the question. He would have bargained to hear it from Rhodey or Pepper, but not Peter. No, certainly not Peter. Which was why Tony couldn’t make it past a few stammered words before Peter spoke up again._

_“I came to you for advice because I think you’re a good person, Mister Stark,” Peter said. The honesty seeped through his tone._

_As the kid’s statement rattled around in his head, Tony was too preoccupied to notice his eyes welling over. When he did, he blinked them clean and cleared his throat, smiling strongly before saying, “you’re a good person, too, Mister Parker. Which is why tonight is going to go swimmingly. Right?”_

_Peter nodded and smiled as well. “Right. Thank you.”_

_“Anytime, Pete.”_

* * *

The gasp that rips through Tony’s throat is painful, and his body seizes beneath the weight and heat holding him down. His heads-up display is dark aside from a small red error light below his eyes. And every breath he takes—as sparingly as they come—feels like a hundred daggers poking him from all sides. But, while the pain is debilitating, Tony pushes through it. He can still hear the fire, hissing and cracking around him despite the surrounding darkness. The heat is the worst of it all. It’s burning through his suit and scalding his skin. He’s roasting in his own grave, and he doesn’t remember how he got there in the first place. 

With the little strength he has left, Tony lifts himself through the rubble as a thick grunt leaves his lips. When he stands, the bright flames come into view, and he sees what remains of the building that took Peter Parker away from him. The walls are still crumbling. The ceilings are still collapsing. 

Tony doesn’t have a choice anymore. He has to leave. He has to be patient. He has to wait for the worst news to come. 

“System reboot,” he mutters as he walks, and the HUD comes to life around him. His AI doesn’t have the chance to greet him before he says, “call May Parker.”

He doesn’t remember the conversation once it ends. The next few minutes are a blur—swirling oranges and yellows mix with the red lights of neighboring firetrucks, and Tony feels like a sore thumb in all this mess. He can’t do anything other than stand still and watch the flames die out. 

_Nanotech—not heat resistant_. The mental note is stored within the depths of his brain. By now, the cold air has done enough favors. A graphic tee and a pair of sweatpants are the only things protecting him from the temperature outside, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think about it or seem to care. When May’s car pulls up to the scene, there isn’t another thought or emotion that enters Tony’s head other than pure panic. 

“Where is he?” she asks once she steps out of her car. She’s in similar attire to him as she whips a long coat around her shoulders and hugs her torso tight. The fire in her eyes is something skin to the flames he crawled out of. “Where’s Peter?”

Tony grits his teeth behind his lips. He doesn’t know how to tell her. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to utter the words he’s been denying the entire night. But she takes his silence as an answer, and her expression breaks. 

Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, keeping her gaze locked on him. “No,” she whispers. “No, no, no. Tony, where the fuck is my nephew? Tell me he’s alive. Tell me he’s okay. Where is he? _Where is Peter?”_

As his nostrils flare, her palms meet his t-shirt, and he doesn’t dare remove her from him. Her sobs are sudden and loud. Her grip is tight enough to rip the seams of his ratty tee. And Tony… he feels lost. Hopeless. His heart aches for her, and all he can do is reach out and pull her in. The cries that wrack her body shake his bones.

“Y-you promised,” she whimpers against him, soaking his t-shirt with her tears, although that doesn’t seem to matter now. Not while he’s holding back his own tears as well. “You promised t-to protect him. You promised.”

He rubs a circle on her back and closes his eyes. “I know,” he says. It’s all he can say. 

Happy arrives at a quarter ‘til one in the morning. He looks like anything other than the man Tony hired many years ago—aged from the stress of having to deal with the billionaire’s mess, but in this case, worry conquers all. Happy worries for the sixteen-year-old who might’ve just lost his life. 

Tony doesn’t breathe out a sigh of relief when his friend approaches. The lines in his forehead draw in tight, wrinkling his skin in permanent caverns that will never leave him again. This night has plagued him like a vivid nightmare he can’t wake up from. 

“Where is she?” are the first words that Happy says. His hands are stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket, and when his gaze falls onto the scene behind him, reality hits. Happy stares in horrified awe. “Holy shit. Is he still—”

“She’s in her car,” Tony says quickly. His breath catches in his throat before it freezes past his lips. “Staying warm. I’m—I’m waiting.”

Happy doesn’t need to ask for clarification. He knows what Tony is waiting for. He knows how much pain Tony is holding back. While a sea of questions and thoughts float between them, they don’t say a word. They don’t know how to.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Happy whispers. His glassy eyes reflect what is left of the dying flames. He’s not familiar with this—consoling a man who refuses to be consoled. He’s not familiar with the emotions that both of them can’t seem to show but are willing to feel. Their relationship has never been like this, yet Happy knows Tony. He knows him too well. “I’ll—I will check on May. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she’s okay.” 

_Are you okay?_ Tony hears. But the words don’t leave Happy’s lips. They don’t need to.

Tony nods and places his hand over his friend’s. “Thank you, Hap.”

As Happy walks away, there’s hesitation in his actions. He’s unsure. Worried. Afraid that leaving Tony might be the worst thing he could possibly do. Yet Tony waves him off, assures him that he’s fine, and sends him the weakest smile he can muster. 

The silence is unfriendly once he’s alone. He feels empty, void of emotion while his thoughts swirl in his head. There is a time and place for this kind of feeling—the plane ride back home after award presentations or board meetings, for example. But now, Tony is angry with himself. Livid that he can’t seem to control his thoughts or pick at the hints of sympathy he’s trying to obtain. He’s angry and he’s lost. All he can do is stand in one place and watch as the fire dies over the rubble, hopeful that Peter isn’t underneath it all. 

Tony’s stomach churns as he stares at the firefighters, at the smoke that streams off of the hot pile of debris. His feet are numb, and he can’t decipher the difference between cold chills or nervous ones. If it weren’t for his stream of consciousness, he would be a useless brain in a useless body. 

It’s not enough for him. He’s not doing enough, and he can feel the frustration grow with each passing moment. Patience is being forced upon him while he sits in an empty shell, waiting for a sign, and it’s not enough. Tony dials the only person he can think of: Rhodey.

“This better be fuckin’ good if you’re gonna call me at one in the morning,” his friend grumbles through the phone. The sound of his voice works at easing Tony’s worry, if only for a few seconds, but this time, it’s enough. 

“Rhodey, I—” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. It comes out sharp and shaky, and he doesn’t think to hide it for his friend’s sake. “I need you to talk to me.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Rhodey asks. A beat later, he says the words that Tony has been dreading all night. “Are you okay?”

Tony shakes his head to himself. “No, I’m definitely not, and I don’t know how to be,” he tells him. “Jesus. _Fuck_. The kid—he did something stupid. Probably. And now he…”

Rhodey waits a few seconds for Tony to continue, but the words never come. They hang in the air on the strings of balloons, floating higher until they’re far out of reach. They’re as lost as Tony’s thoughts. The missing words are why he needs his friend to talk so badly—because he physically can’t. 

“Oh,” Rhodey says. _Oh_. That’s it. _It’s not enough_.

Tears prick at Tony’s eyes as he breathes out a simple plea. “ _Please_.”

“What do you want me to say?”

Tony swallows the thick layer of bile building in his throat and exhales through his nose. “How did it feel when—when I went missing? Or when I was dying? How—what did that…” He can’t finish his thought; it catches on his teeth before it can pass his lips. 

“Okay, okay, breathe—” 

His muscles freeze over while panic crawls up his chest, but Tony doesn’t fall victim to it. He lets the feeling subside and breathes with Rhodey’s words. 

“It wasn’t good, I’ll tell you that,” Rhodey explains, laughing slightly at the end. “Felt like shit every day. Felt hopeless. But you’re so damn stubborn, I knew that I couldn’t be.” 

Tony clenches his jaw, letting his gaze fall to his feet while he blocks out the noise around him with his friend’s voice. He needed this. It’s better. It’s already better. 

“Keep going,” he mutters and closes his eyes. 

“Well, forgive me—I’m still a little tired from you waking me up at one in the fucking morning.”

Tony manages a laugh. A tear slips down his cheek before he can catch it. 

“You wanna know what I had for breakfast?” Rhodey asks. 

“I bet I could guess.”

“Amuse me.”

“Plain toast and scrambled eggs,” Tony says, “with some gross sludge of a smoothie.”

Rhodey chuckles on the other end. “Better than that shit you made me last week,” he replies. “I’ll kill you if you ever think about putting cantaloupe in a smoothie again. And I’m not lying this time. It made me feel murderous. I wanted to commit murder.”

The grin that breaks out on Tony’s face is genuine for a moment before it falters. It hurts him to smile at a time like this, and the pit building in his stomach reroutes his thoughts again. He looks up to the sky—at the fading smoke and the pollution hiding the stars—and breathes. 

“Tones,” Rhodey says softly, sensing the shift in mood. “I can be there in twenty minutes if you need me to be. Just say the word.” 

“No, you don’t have—” Tony cuts himself off to let the offer sink in. This time, he thinks he needs him. He needs Rhodey more than he realizes. 

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Tony can’t will himself to protest. 

He doesn’t take his eyes away from May Parker’s car as he waits. He should be in there with her, consoling her and drying her tears, but he should also be out here. And he should be anywhere else. Peter should be in his bedroom, playing online games all night until his energy drink high wears out, and he should be asking that girl out on a second date. He shouldn’t be here. None of them should be here. 

Rhodey arrives after twenty minutes just as he said. The MIT sweatshirt he wears is the same one that Tony has in his closet back home, but there’s an old chemical stain down the sleeve from a failed experiment. It had been Tony’s fault, yet after all these years, he will still refuse to admit it. 

“This,” Rhodey begins, glancing at the smoldering remains behind the layers of emergency vehicles, “is not what I was expecting.”

Tony’s expression twists as he looks over his shoulder. “Certainly not ideal,” he says. 

“Hey.”

He meets his friend’s eye with raised brows.

“We’ll find him,” Rhodey says.

Tony nods. “Yeah. I’m afraid of that. The search party is already gearing up.”

“Are you ready?”

A heaviness sits on Tony’s chest as he shakes his head. “Never will be,” he manages. The inside of his cheek has been chewed thin from his persistent worrying, and he flinches as he bites it again. With a stiff nod, he slaps Rhodey on the shoulder and utters, “let’s go.”

The sight makes Tony sick, but nothing is sickening about it. Only a shell of a building—a collapsed structure that looks like the aftermath of an explosion, and it makes his bones shake to think about Peter being beneath it all. Firefighters step over burning coals as Tony blindly follows. Rhodey keeps hold of his arm the entire time. The air is still thick, hardly breathable, but it doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t cross Tony’s mind. 

What sickens him the most isn’t the remnants of burnt furniture or the melted remains of office carpeting. The first body they find isn’t a body at all. Only limbs, charred and blackened as if it had never been a human at all. Tony pales, but he keeps moving. 

It’s not Peter. It can’t be. 

But the thought that crosses Tony’s mind is debilitating. Horrifying. If Peter had been there after all, he would have saved everyone first. He would have been the last one standing. 

It feels wrong, but Tony breathes out a sigh of relief when a second body is found. He has to excuse himself when they find a third. 

The hot air fades away as he wanders off—far from the scene, from the bodies, and from the people he fears to face. His hands tremble with each heavy breath he takes, and he thinks he might pass out if he walks any farther. There’s an ache in his left arm that causes him to clutch his heart. 

He doesn’t notice Rhodey approaching; he doesn’t have to when he already senses that he’s there. 

“I have to keep searching,” Tony gasps out, facing his friend with wide, watery eyes. It feels as though his ribs have been plucked from his chest, one-by-one until his organs are left unprotected. “I have to.”

“You do what you have to do, Tones,” Rhodey says. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m—” Tony’s shoulders relax. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“You don’t have to.” 

“Will you stay?”

Rhodey seems shocked by the question. But he nods and smiles despite his furrowed brows. Despite the unfamiliar desperation seeping from his best friend. “You know I will.”

Tony nods as well. “I know,” he says. “Thank you.”

He keeps searching as he said he would, but where anyone would least expect. Once the suit molds around his figure, Tony soars up to the rooftops with a firm grasp on that flicker of hope he still has left. He thinks he knows Peter well enough. He thinks he can predict his behavior to know where he would go if he, too, felt lost. If there was a chance that Peter survived, and if he knew that he had been unable to save everyone, he wouldn’t go home. Tony steps down on a neighboring roof and sighs.

Peter would go right here. At least, he should have. 

Tony checks every rooftop and alleyway within a mile radius. The time is now half-past two in the morning, but it’s the last thing on his mind as he searches every crevice of the neighborhood. He refuses to give up, and he refuses to believe that Peter had been among those bodies. 

But, as it nears three o’clock, Tony’s exhaustion mixes with his anxiety. He sniffs harshly to hold back his tears.

“FRIDAY,” he speaks into the night. “Call Peter Parker.”

The call goes to voicemail. Just as he expected. 

Tony’s head is splitting; there’s an ache behind his eyes that only comes once in a blue moon, but all he can do is rub it away and inhale as deep as he possibly can. 

“He didn’t go to my place, did he?” Tony tries. His voice is weaker than normal. 

“No, boss,” the AI answers. “There has been no sign of Mister Parker.”

Tony grits his teeth, muttering out a sharp, “fuck,” before he calms his breathing. “Okay.”

One more idea. He has one more idea. One more place. One last bit of hope to cling onto. 

Two minutes later, Tony lands on the fire escape outside of Peter’s bedroom window. The room is dark from what he can tell, nothing but the distant red glow of a shitty alarm clock that Peter hasn’t used in years. Tony dreads the idea of entering. He partially wishes that he had never had this idea in the first place. He fears the inevitable. He fears the sight of an empty bed.

Nevertheless, Tony slides open the window that Peter always leaves cracked. The hope he holds is still there. Still burning. 

Tony enters slowly. All he can feel is his heartbeat. All he can hear are his own breaths. He tries not to grimace at the scent of teenage boy as he steps forward, and his foot makes contact with a hard object on the ground. Using the flashlight on his phone, he expects to see a backpack at his feet, filled to the brim with heavy textbooks that break the kid’s back each day. But that’s not it. Far from it. 

“Jesus— _shit_ ,” Tony mutters. The stammering of his heart worsens as he bends down. He places two fingers against Peter’s neck—over the burns and bloodstains that cover his exposed skin. The lousy lighting hardly reveals the extent of the kid’s injuries. The only things Tony can focus on are the torn suit and the person inside of it. “Hey, kid. You with me?”

He speaks before he feels the faint thumping of Peter’s unsteady heartbeat. With a heavy sigh, Tony sits back on the floor, closes his eyes, and lets himself breathe. For those few seconds, he can finally breathe. 

“FRIDAY?” he asks aloud.

“Vitals are fatal,” she says. “Mister Parker needs immediate medical assistance.” 

“That’s what I thought.” Tony doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Peter’s limp body. As he stands, he holds him tight to his chest. “Get May Parker to meet me upstate.”

He doesn’t feel the body in his arms shift until he steps back outside. While his heart remains heavy, his thoughts are empty. Tony doesn’t have the ability to wallow in this moment. He can’t allow himself to be thankful that he found Peter alive. 

That will wait until Peter is guaranteed to _stay_ alive. 

However, when Tony hears a soft groan, the weight of it all starts to sink in. 

“Easy, kiddo,” he mutters, holding on tighter. “Don’t move around too much.”

“Something hurts.”

Tony would have never imagined that hearing Peter’s voice would relieve him so much. But it does, and he smiles as if he had never felt such solace before. 

“Probably your entire body,” Tony replies. 

Peter sniffs and curls his head into the crook of Tony’s elbow. “Allergies,” he mumbles. “Acting up.”

Tony can’t resist the urge to huff and roll his eyes. Now, he can finally breathe. He can feel relief. He can let himself be thankful for holding onto that hope. He can be happy that Peter is alive. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “ _Allergies_. Tell that to your aunt.”

“You tell her.”

“Don’t make me regret saving your life.”

Peter answers with a hum. It’s not much, but to Tony, it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ! <3


End file.
